Easy to Say
by Necchan
Summary: Second of the 3 fics I wrote to celebrate Rockman's 21st Anniversary back in December. "Some things are easy to say. Others are just too much for words."As usual, the ‘love’ between Proto and Mega can be either romantic or brotherly. It's up to the reader


**Title: **"Easy to say"

**Author:** Nemesi.

**Fandom:** Rockman Classic Series (MM).

**Genre: **Starts off as crack!humour, then gets all fluffy, with a touch of well-hidden angst. It's not technically romance because, as usual, the 'love' between Proto and Mega can either be romantic or purely platonic, depending on how you wish to read it. Roll-chan's got an admirer, too. *chuckles*

**Word Count:** 2037.

**Characters: **Protoman, Megaman. Cameos by: Dr Light, Roll, Rush, Bass, Treble, Kalinka and *drums roll* X. ←couldn't resist it XD;;

**Rating:** PG

**A/N:** This is an AU, I guess… how else could you explain Bass standing in Dr Light's garden without destroying _anything_? Oh, and X's presence, too.

Please note that the Proto and Mega featured here are _NOT_ children like in my latest drawing of them. This is the slightly more mature rendition of them (Proto: 21, Mega 16) I used in the "I stand alone" pic, the humorous "cut finger" comiclet, the Kalinka fic, the blue-flower of hope sketch, etc.

**Disclaimer:** Rockman, its characters, places and themes belong to Capcom, Shogakukan, ShoPro, TV Tokio, etc. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Summary:** Some things are easy to say. Others just cannot be conveyed, no matter how hard you try.

* * * * *

**I**t is a quiet morning, one of the few he allows himself to spend home — _no, not 'home'_, he chides himself. _Dr Light's household _— or at least, in the vicinity of it.

It's an over-rained summer, the plants in the garden seem sluggish, the flowers drooping under the combined weight of raindrops and nectar, shying away from the sun like timid girls. There's a pleasant buzz in the air, the drone from working honeybees and the occasional airplane sailing overhead. The sun is a sphere of honey on a turquoise canvas, and the clouds are so thick and white they seems made out of candyfloss or marshmallow batter.

Roll is humming as she twirls from one room to the other with that broom of hers (and no, it's not Bass the one spying her from the rosebushes, just someone who looks suspiciously like him, down to the stripes of violet on his cheeks and the mechanical wolf yawning hugely at his feet). Rush is dozing quietly on the porch, belly-up, baking himself in the cosy sunlight. Every now and then, he kicks one of his hind legs, probably lost in a dream or another.

There's a carafe of ice tea on the table, there by the back door; and a tall glass inside which a few ice cubes are melting slowly, chinking softly as they go, and giving off glints of golden-coloured light. Dr Light (the glass's owner) is nowhere to be seen. Every now and then, his voice can be heard floating, soft and proud, from the lab, where he is giving the finishing touches to his youngest, that which he insists on calling 'X', like the unknown quantity that he is.

Protoman can be seen sitting (but only if you squint very hard, because he is a master at hiding) a little away from the house; out of Dr Light's property, but well within hearing distance, so that if there was an emergency (again) he'd be close enough to come out in the nick of time and save the day (again).

He has his shades on (they help against the blinding sunlight) and his scarf tied securely around the neck (good thing that time and use wore it so thin it hardly warms him: the air is stifling enough as it is), but he's discarded his helmet to enjoy the breeze, humid, but very cool and refreshing. He's scanning through a newspaper he's taken (on loan, of course) from the table Dr Light just vacated. He's pleasantly surprised when he notices there isn't anything on it that's even remotely related to Wily and his misgivings.

It's a nice enough day; he'd dare say a perfect one, if only he believed such a thing could ever exist.

And in fact, he cannot even finish his thought that, all of a sudden, his sunlight-supply is cut short by a (admittedly small) shadow, the newspaper is wrenched from him, and he finds himself with a lapful of Mega.

Allow me to rephrase that.

A lapful of _pouting_ Mega.

And a _pouting_ Mega is never a good thing, because a _pouting_ Mega is a Mega on a quest to get something, and if it's hard to deny him anything under normal circumstances, it's downright _impossible_ not to keel over under the ungodly power of the _pout_.

Protoman arches an eyebrow, tries to keep cool, and succeeds damn well, because cool is what he was built to be.

"Hello Mega," he says smoothly, taking back his crumpled newspaper and trying to smooth it into something at least marginally readable. Megaman thrusts his bottom lip further out, and tugs the newspaper down with a small fist.

"Protooooooo…" he calls, with a _noticeable_ whine in his voice.

"Yes, Mega?"

"I was wondering…"

"Yes, Mega?" peering under the clenched fingers to a particularly interesting article.

"Why…" biting his bottom lip.

"Mh?"

"…why won't you ever say _it_?"

Protoman doesn't need the superhuman capabilities he's been gifted with to understand what Mega is talking about. He freezes, main systems going haywire for about a nanosecond, and then skipping straight into overdrive. He _knows_ that, had he been human, he would've been struggling for breath at this point, or fighting to keep his heart beating evenly.

But human he is not, and so he sounds acceptably nonplussed when he delivers his answer.

"I can't Mega."

Mega is a little less refined, when he splutters out a tentative:

"But!"

"You _know_ I can't." _End of the story._

Mega huffs and crosses his arms imperiously, squaring his shoulders as he looks down his little nose at the older robot.

"What I know is that you _won't_. But I don't know the reason _why_. I mean," and here he uncurls, stance losing every ounce of hostility it might have held as he leans down, tugging on Protoman's scarf, head tilted to try and catch Protoman's eyes with his own pleading ones. "It's so easy to say it. I say it all the time. To you. To Rush, and Dad and Roll-chan. I even said it to Kalinka-chan the day of my birthday party, when she gave me that scarf she made that looks just like yours, remember?"

Protoman snorts. Oh, does he remember. Kalinka probably won't ever allow him to forget. Even after so many weeks, she is _still_ smug that her own gift was the one Mega liked best, and sniggers to herself every chance she sees Protoman (which aren't many, but still), chirping delightedly about how much-much-muchly Mega looks up to his Proto-chaaaaa~_aaan!_ (_with_ the heart included, yes.)

Mega is tugging on Protoman's scarf now, trying to call him back from la-la land, and Protoman makes the mistake of meeting his eyes. When he tilts his head, their faces are an hairsbreadth away.

"Come on, Proto. Say it. Just once?"

Protoman grins (rather sadly), and shakes his head in silence. Megaman's pout morphs into a look of determination, and Protoman wonders idly if he was just _shoved_ out of the proverbial frying pan into the fire. A pouting Mega can, with some luck (read: a genocidal attack from Wily), be swayed. But a Mega on a _mission_…

"I'll teach you."

"…excuse me?"

"If you can't say it, then I. Will. Teach. You. How." Slowly, as though talking to a small child, and not the original of their race, the One and Perfect. He rearranges himself on Protoman's lap, squirming until he finds a comfortable position, then puts on his best "teacher face" to date.

"With me, now," he begins, wiggling one finger in Protoman's face, and really: Protoman would be amused, if he wasn't slightly unnerved by the whole thing. Where are Wily and those megalomaniac plans of his, when you need them?

"Say with me, now: 'I'…" stretching the syllable until he is almost breathless, repeating it when Protoman does nothing but watch him with a look that the shades make impossible to decipher.

Megaman scoffs, cutely (because there isn't _one_ thing Mega does, that isn't _impossibly_ cute), and clarifies:

"… 'I', Proto, is the first syllable of our phrase, and you are supposed to say it after me. You start with 'I', Proto, _I_. Then you say 'lo'… see?" pointing to his pursed lips, as he moves his mouth like a goldfish, repeating: "lo… lo…lo…lo… it's easy, Proto, I promise! Just say it! I… lo…" He bites his lip as he voices: "ve", then frowns when, after delivering a final "you", Protoman still refuses to cooperate.

"Come on, Proto! It's not that hard! See how easily I say it? I love you. I _love_ you. _I_ love you. I love _you._" Trying out different intonations to further prove his point.

Protoman contemplates ignoring the newly reformed pout and glistening eyes, in favour of his (slightly crumpled) newspaper, before deciding that that pout of Mega's _really_ should be deemed illegal.

"Mega…" he begins, running his hands through Megaman's short, spiky hair, trying to distract him. Megaman pushes his head against Protoman's palm, like a puppy or a kitty, and regards him earnestly, waiting for an answer.

"For me it's so easy. Why isn't it the same for you? I just want to hear you say it, Proto."

Protoman looks defeated. He heaves a sigh, looking down and away, and gives his head a small shake.

"Saying it and meaning it are two different things."

"Are they? I mean it every time I say it, whomever I say it to."

"I know you do. You're special like that. But it doesn't work quite that way with most people." He pauses, presses his lips into a thin line. "And with me, it doesn't work _at all_."

Megaman's eyes slip shut as he takes Protoman's other hand to his cheek, and leans his face into it.

"So if you said you loved me, you wouldn't mean it? Is that it?" He isn't angry, or hurt, or demanding. There is but a soft curiosity shining through his words, something sweet and caring.

"I _would_ mean it. Never doubt that, Mega. _Ever_." He trails off, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. His touch becomes less tentative, it gets more desperate, possessive, in a way, as his hand cups the back of Megaman's neck, fingers clutching at the short, soft hair. "It's _because_ I mean it, that it's so hard for me to find the words."

Megaman's eyelids slid up, eyes shining like morning starts through the thick lashes.

"You _do_ love me?"

"You know what I feel for you."

"Do I?" he pauses, considering, then gives a nod. "I think I do, yes. It's never in words, but it's in everything you do, isn't it? In every touch. Every gesture. Every look. You have been telling me all along. More times that I could ever tell you. With no words, you've been telling me: "I love you", over and over."

And it's not a question as much as a statement; not a revelation but the reaffirmation of an old truth, like when, unexpected, we find an old piece of sweet-smelling paper in a forgotten corner. Taking the ribbon from around the yellowed leaf, and carefully unrolling it, we find a cherished secret scribbled with a childish scrawl. We whisper it out loud, both familiar and unfamiliar with the words we're reading, and discover that that ancient truth still holds true to us, even after decades of dust and silence.

Protoman touches their foreheads together. There's relief and there's resignation and there's fear and there's hope in his voice, when he admits:

"I have."

"You love me" Megaman says softly, and then a second time over, more quietly still, with an even sweeter quality to his voice. Looking up, he adds: "I love you too much to keep quite about it. And you love me too much for words."

Voice vibrating with emotion, something that is firm and cool, as though he had known all along but had wanted _Protoman_ to know as well, to remember and admit and realize that he loved Megaman and was loved back. As though he'd wanted this deeply-buried truth to be out in the open, to stand and shine between them, more real than ever, and become a memory, something they could hold on to in the long nights and weeks and months and years they spend apart, the days of wars and bloodshed, the days of tears and death and sadness that loom ominously ahead of them, this unspoken truth, this wordless pearl of a memory, it will be a beacon, a shiny little nothing, an everything, to carry somewhere deep inside their mechanical bodies, that which should house nothing but circuitries and chips and wires, but also hold an heart and soul.

Protoman understands this and so much more, as Megaman pushes their chests together, mechanical heart to mechanical heart, and cradles him in all gentleness. And he would like to say something, to whisper it and shout it and sing it, with his voice that is a weapon and a miracle. But he can't. And so Protoman just buries his face in Megaman's hair and squeezes his waist in complete silence.

Because his love, it is _too much for words_.

**~*~****おわり****~*~**


End file.
